


Wasteland, Baby

by extemporaneous



Category: The Rain (TV 2018)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, [hozier voice] that's yearning babey!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-05-12 12:24:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19229101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extemporaneous/pseuds/extemporaneous
Summary: In a different world, the one before, a single touch would never have fucked him up as bad as it did now. But he didn't know Martin, what he liked, who he liked. And somehow, at the end of the world, he'd found the one person for which he couldn't be direct. Because if he lost him, if he scared him, he well and truly had nothing left.





	Wasteland, Baby

“It's a good thing I met you.”

Patrick jerks upright, and it takes a moment, between the sound of the rain and the clatter of Martin sorting through the old cabinets, to remember when he'd heard that first. Patrick hums, pulling his foot in from where the rain had begun dangerously encroaching the boundary of the broken glass doors. He holds the cigarette behind him, without looking, humming once more to get his attention. 

The clattering stops and he feels Martin's gloved fingers brush against his as he takes the cigarette. “You always look at the ground while I'm looking at the sky. I wouldn't have found this place to protect us.”

Patrick laughs, silently, shaking his head once. “Someone has got to watch out for your ass.” He turns around on the chair, straddling it, arms resting on the back.

Martin is crouched again, cigarette hanging in his mouth, and he makes a pleased noise as he pulls out a lighter, the kind used for campfires and barbecues. “You should always keep two.” He stands, tucking it into the backpack. 

“Technically it's four now, now that I have a partner.” Patrick's impression of a Wild West cowboy is lost in his Danish accent, but Martin indulges nevertheless, tipping an invisible hat. 

Patrick grins, and thunder cracks over head. “Oh, light them up.” He mumbled, catching two consecutive strikes in a row, illuminating the ridgeline for only a few seconds. 

Both of them love the thunder, not just because of the advanced warning, but because once deadly beautiful, they now kill. Lightning before the rain is to a wolf stalking its prey. There is nothing to predict, nothing to plan for. You hear a clap of thunder, and everything could collapse in a moment. It makes perfect sense that Martin kept an eye to the clouds. 

Patrick loves the thunder because Martin will collapse next to him, sitting there in silence, body heat washing over Patrick. His hands are splayed behind him as they brace him and as always, he looks up at the sky. And he's so distracted he doesn't notice the brush of Patrick's hand against his, or the moment when Patrick leans closer, close enough that their shoulders collide. 

Martin sighs. “This one looks like it's here to stay. I'm going to check upstairs for somewhere to sleep.” 

Patrick clicks his tongue, disappointed. “Not watching the storm?” 

Martin glances at him, then the rain dripping meer feet away. His face flashes blue, and Patrick swears his expression is heavy. After a long moment he finally replies “No, finding a bed is a better idea.” His voice has shifted, tone deeper, but thunder drowns out the difference. 

“We should go up together... didn't scout this place properly.”

Martin shoulders his bag, turning to the stairs almost immediately. “I'll lead.” 

Patrick's whisper is instinctual. “I'll follow.” 

The first rooms contain not much of anything. They've been sacked before the two arrived, the evidence overturned furniture and a scattering of bullet holes in the deteriorating drywall. The room farthest down the hallway yields results however. A bed, still made, though the blanket is dusty. Patrick moans. It's been ages since he slept in a bed. He hadn't even had one in the months before the first rain. 

Go. Don't come back. 

It was an unspoken rule, and perhaps the bare minimum of a positive relationship between another person, but Martin had never told him to leave. Patrick prayed that he never would. There was nothing left in this world besides an ex soldier and a pack of cigarettes and Patrick couldn't continue without one of them, not really. 

He let his backpack drop to the floor, reaching a hand out to run through the fibers of the blanket. It was the softest thing he'd touched in six years. Like a pavlovian response to the thought of soft things, a memory flickered to life. The night that Martin had hurt his arm and right collarbone, unable to change his bloodied shirt for a new one. Raking his mind, Patrick couldn't remember how Martin hurt himself in the first place, just that he’d managed to disguise his sharp inhale as a cough, as he traced the wound with a finger, trying to evaluate its severity, the other hand cradling the side of Martin’s face, so he could better examine it. 

He laughed at the thought. In a different world, the one before, a single touch would never have fucked him up as bad as it did now. But he didn't know Martin, what he liked, who he liked. And somehow, at the end of the world, he'd found the one person for which he couldn't be direct. Because if he lost him, if he scared him, he well and truly had nothing left. 

And that was the scariest thing in the world. Scarier than the rain, scarier than the Strangers.

“What's funny?” Martin asked, and when Patrick redirected his attention he saw Martin, without his shirt, reaching into the bedside drawer. 

“Nothing.” Patrick muttered, looking away. 

“Why do you always look away?” Patrick opened his mouth, his tongue sharpened for a bitter retort, but his thoughts slipped and he closed it again. Suddenly, he felt like Martin knew why, that perhaps he’d always known why. Martin took a step towards him, and fuck, Patrick could feel the heat in his cheeks. “Is it because you want to touch it?” Patrick's stomach dropped. “Because you can.” 

Run. Run run run. Always run.

He made it to the door before Martin grabbed his shoulder, freezing him in place. “I know you want to. You've always wanted to.” And Patrick's mind fills with a warm static as he feels Martin reach around, hand splaying against his stomach as he pulls the shorter man flat against him, bringing his other hand from his shoulder down to wear Patrick's is stiff, intertwining his fingers with his. The soldiers breath is a hot huff behind his ear. “Don't go.” 

He leans back into the touch, and he pushes his head back against Martin’s, feeling his lips brush against the back of his neck and he feels weak, like an old thing, weathering the storm. 

Martin undresses him, Patrick trying weakly here and there to aid him with all the layers. But mostly Martin is looking him in the eyes. Patrick knows his are blown wide, and by the time he reaches his pants, he already wants to be changed so deeply he'll forget about the pattering of rain against the window. 

Martin takes him in his hand, and Patrick whines. A low, pathetic drawling noise stumbling over itself into Martin's name, rasped out. “Please, Martin, please I want you so bad.” 

Martin hums, pleased, looking at him through his eyelashes. A smile is resting easy on his lips. It’s the same smile Patrick may have just fallen for on that very first day. “I've wanted to hear you begging for a while now. Want to hear you take it.” 

So they give and take. 

He knows that they very well could be experiencing two very different things. Devotion is one hell of a drug. The strongest Patrick has ever tried, and he doesn’t know if Martin feels the same way. In fact, he knows he mostly doesn’t, but it’s enough to pretend for the night that he does. At least there is trust and oh how they trust each other. Enough to be between each other’s legs, and everywhere else. 

Patrick is bent over on his hands and knees, the mattress giving under their weight. Martin is curled over him, hips snapping, one arm wrapped around Patrick's abdomen, his other hand firmly in his hair. Patrick is a long line of explicits, and it's all blurring together but he begs like he'll die without Martin.

It's bliss when Martin relents for a moment, moving the other man onto his back, grabbing him in one hand, continuing his previous rhythm with the other. It's sloppy now, the giving. And the taking couldn't be more frantic. Patrick can barely think between kisses, breath wiped from him what seems like eons ago. He's already gone once and twice, and with Martin's mouth and hands working him, it might be a third time. 

Patrick can't feel anything and he feels everything, Martin between his legs, the way his stomach is firm underneath his desperate hands, the way it feels to be explored so deeply. 

It's been an hour and Patrick feels he could pass out. He's a sticky, disgusting, wrecked mess. So is Martin. But six years is a long time to yearn so deeply, and if the night ends, when the night ends, he doesn't want to remember his name, only the one of the man he loves. He knows he shouldn’t say it, that he won't hear them back, but the words have never wanted to be free so badly, and so they slip into the rain-cold air of the room, over and over, as he feathers his fingers over Martin’s face, his eyelids, his cheeks “I’m in love with you.”

Martin murmurs breath hot and heavy against his mouth. “I love you.”

In the wasteland, he feels more vulnerable than in the world before it. Martin sinks into him, kisses him, palms pressed to frame Patrick’s face, and Patrick can feel tears prick in his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know I was possessed by the sheer amount of gay longing Patrick is written with.  
> Yeah. I know like three people will read this, but if you're one of them pls leave a comment it's all I have in rare pair hell.


End file.
